


Recall

by whimsical_ramblings



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Breathplay, F/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 19:24:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1869516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsical_ramblings/pseuds/whimsical_ramblings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Big Boss never realized just how much Ocelot resembled The Boss until she road up on a white horse to save him. Now he'd do anything to get the image out of his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recall

Big Boss was running. He told himself this over and over again, until it became a looping mantra in his head. I’m running. I’m running. I’m running. Where was he running? After their stolen ambulance had crashed, tumbling down a steep ravine at the edge of the road, he’d pulled himself from the wreckage of its twisted metal frame and scanned the area for Ishmael, clawing his way back up to the road when his rescuer was nowhere to be found. He still wasn’t entirely sure that the man hadn’t just been some vivid hallucination, a waking dream caused by some mix of drugs and overwhelming stress . Nothing made sense anymore, nothing felt real, and the only thing he knew for certain was that he needed to run, to get as far away from the burning hospital as he could. Which, he soon found out, was easier said than done.

His legs, the muscles weak and frail from disuse, struggled to support his weight, and more than once his feet caught a rock, or a dip in the terrain, and he was sent sprawling to the ground, the gravel of the road like sandpaper against his bare skin. Every time, he would fist his hand in the dirt and pull himself back up, feeling unbalanced with only one usable arm, and he’d set off again.

They’re going to catch me, he thought idly. His chest heaved despite the adrenaline he felt racing through his veins, his lungs burned, and his vision swam dangerously, making him feel sick to his stomach. he tried to remember a time when he’d felt this helpless, and his mind wandered back ten years, to a rickety wooden bridge roped across a large ravine, two unapologetic blue eyes staring daggers into his, his arm broken, his feet leaving the wooden planks of the bridge as he was tossed over the side and left to fall.

Big Boss shook his head, scattering the thoughts before they became too vivid, too painful. He was better than that. Or at least, he’d thought he was. Everything he did seemed to loop back to that time, to those feelings, regardless of how much he tried to convince himself that he was more what that experience had made of him.

A rustling in the trees next to him made him pause, and his heart seized when he heard the telltale sound of a horse’s hooves galloping at full speed, it’s feet pounding like a drum against the forest floor. The sound was getting closer, and before he could think to hide himself, a white horse crashed through the treeline, its rider pulling back on its reins until the animal reared up and neighed loudly. Big Boss fell backwards before he could stop himself, landing with a thud against the road. He looked up at the rider, their silhouette illuminated by the moonlight peaking through the cloudy night sky, and his eye took in the familiar outline of the figure, the short blonde hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, the sharp features and those same blue eyes staring right through him as they—she—leaned over in her saddle and extended her hand out to him.

“Boss?” he asked, the word coming out like a strained, desperate prayer.

“Need a hand?” the rider said, a playful lilt to the suggestion, and Big Boss’s stomach sank into the ground. That voice...it wasn’t her.

“Ocelot,” he said, and Ocelot, perched atop a horse that looked so insultingly similar to the one the Boss had owned all those years ago, smirked.

“Kept you waiting, huh?”

***

Something was different about John. Well, Ocelot supposed that saying something was “different” would be a bit too vague of a statement. Of course John was different. The man she’d pulled onto the back of her horse all those months ago was not the same man she’d known before Motherbase sank, and in a way, that was to be expected. No, there was more to it than that. There wasn’t just something different about John; there was something different about the way he treated her.

If there was one thing John had never felt the need to do around her, it was walk on eggshells. And that’s exactly what he was doing. Walking on eggshells. He’d been evading her, answering her questions in short, clipped sentences (or sometimes not at all), trying not to look her in the eye. Even now as he stood next to her on the firing range, the sun setting low over the paper dummies at the end of the track, he was distant, his mouth a firm line, shoulders tight and muscles taut as a bowstring. There was a time when John would’ve taken pleasure in firing a gun, and there was a time when he even might’ve challenged her to some sort of friendly competition by now, teasing her about how he could beat her aim even without two fully functioning arms. Ocelot wasn’t delusional enough to think that things could just go back to the way they’d been before; that part of John was dead now. But she also knew that whatever was going on with him, it was more than just the change she’d seen since he’d woken from his coma. It was avoidance.

One of John’s shots went long, and the bullet ripped through the paper near the edge of the target, nearly missing it altogether. Ocelot smirked, glancing at him out of the corner of her eyes and, squeezing the trigger of her gun, fired at the target on John’s side of the range. The bullet tore right through the center of it, and John’s head whipped around to look at her. His eye narrowed, the scowl on his face deepening, and Ocelot twirled her gun around her finger.

“Still not used to that arm, John?” she asked.

“What did I tell you about using that name?” he growled at her. Ocelot’s heart sped up, thumping against her ribcage, and an excited thrill shot up her spine. She could see him getting angry at her, worked up over something he was struggling not to face, and she liked it. John rarely got angry anymore, or irritated, or cocky, or anything really. He just seemed numb, devoid of any sort of purpose besides his overwhelming need for revenge. And it was, she had to admit, incredibly boring to witness.

“What would you prefer then?” she asked. “Boss? Snake?” She paused, and something in her told her not to push him any further. But most of the recruits had turned in for the night, and Ocelot wanted nothing more than to see that side of him come out. “Jack?” she suggested.

His hands were on her before she could blink, red and white fingers squeezing at her throat, slamming her back into a nearby beam, the soles of her boots dangling above the grate of the walkway, and she gasped for air, grinning, her eyes bright when she looked down at him.

“There you are,” she said, her voice strained as her airway was crushed beneath two powerful hands. He looked like murder right now, like a storm, like a monsoon was brewing inside his eye as he looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time in years.

“Fuck you,” he snarled. His fingers tightened, and Ocelot felt weak, almost weightless, like she was floating above him. She could feel the bruises starting to form under his hands.

“Would you?” she asked with the little air she had left, leaving the last half of the sentence hanging between them, a suggestion, one she hoped he’d take.

_Would you fuck me?_

His fingers loosened around her neck, and she fell from his grasp, sliding down the beam and choking on much-needed air, her trembling hand tracing the marks he’d left behind. John leaned over and grabbed her wrist, pulling her upright.

“C’mon,” he said, and he dragged them both towards one of the nearby storage rooms, filled with weapons and uniforms and other equipment for incoming recruits. Once the door had been closed and firmly locked behind them, Ocelot lunged at him, hands clinging desperately to fistfuls of hair as she kissed him, biting at his bottom lip, gasping when the cold metal of his artificial hand worked its way under her shirt and wandered across her back, his other hand gripping her ass through her pants, pulling them closer together. He slammed her against the wall, and she ripped the front of his pants open, slipping her hand into the waistband and wrapping it around his cock. He growled against her mouth, hips rutting against hers, fingers tugging at her pants until they slipped off her legs, one of her boots going with them while the other one managed to stay on, and she gasped when his hand clawed at the underside of her thigh to pull one of her legs up to his waist.

“John,” she moaned when his fingers started to work her open.

“Call me that,” he started to say, pausing to catch his breath, “one more fucking time.”

 

He sank into her, the motion uncaring, almost painful, and as he moved against her, she felt beads of sweat roll down her face, her short blonde hair matted against her ears, her neck, her throat still burning from where his hands had been earlier. She dug her nails into his back, clawing at his shoulders, hoping to draw blood, and as she felt something start to build in the pit of her stomach, she noticed John’s forehead was pressed against the wall, staring away from her, just as he’d been doing everyday for the past four months. He was still hiding from her, still avoiding her, but none of that seemed important anymore. Maybe that was because his dick was buried inside of her, but for whatever reason, she was willing to let the issue slide.

She pressed her lips against the side of his neck, the skin salty with sweat, and bit down, tasting iron on her tongue, wrenching a moan out of him. After running her into the wall a few more times she felt him come and sag against her, the tension leaving his muscles as he gripped the hair at the nape of her neck and pulled her teeth away from him. She slid down the wall and looked up at him while he tucked himself into his pants, her pupils still blown wide with lust, chest heaving through her shirt.

“Are you fucking serious?” she asked as he threaded his belt through the belt loops on his pants. John looked down at her, eyes trained on the wall behind her rather than her face.

“You wanna come?” he asked. “Find Kaz. I’ve heard you two’ve been more than friendly lately.”

 **  
** He met her eyes for a brief moment, then pulled away, flinging the door to the room open and slamming it closed as he left.


End file.
